True Stories by Stanley Buck: "Waldport Rainforest Ride"

Photo Source:  Cafe Racer.com

"Waldport Rainforest Ride"

by Stanley Buck

I’m old, but I roll the years off. Today, as countless times in the past, I satisfyingly surged forward, in time, in space, in mind. A wind rush, and my youth was back, full force. I wicked the throttle, and immediately swept twenty years away as the Honda sped up Dick’s Fork canyon, following pavement, leaning into sharp turns, and finally over gravel, running out to nimble trails covered in fir needles and bordered by sword fern, and then into the cool dark side of a remote forest canopy; a rain forest, just five miles from the Pacific Ocean. Real Oregon.

It got steep fast, and the canyon narrowed, followed a stream, often invisible under overhanging vine maple, dogwood, and salmonberry bushes. More years dropped off, and I was living in paradise, somewhere in time, all by myself, not a sight of another human being, or a man made object for miles.

The stream was so narrow that in places one could jump across it to the other mossy bank, green carpet for the little people, elves, probably hiding in that hollow cedar log sticking out of the moss over there. The water is clear and cold flowing over tan and brown sandstone, covered with small flat stones of various sizes, sorted by nature for us kids who love to skip them over the water.

Finally, the scene was too much to resist, I pulled the bike over, threw the switch and the Honda’s thumping heartbeats stopped. Then all I could hear was the running stream and some slight wind, hundreds of feet up in the forest canopy.

(Just before the bike entered the woods, chipmunks skittered back and forth across the roads and trails harvesting small wild blackberries. Holding their little tails high, I accused them of risking their lives, but they wouldn’t listen, just kept eating blackberries and running back and forth. I can’t blame them, because these are not regular berries, these have a distinctive flavor, and very small seeds; one pie and you’re hooked.)

I left the bike on its stand, and headed down the bank to the creek, jumped up on a log, and peered into the water. It was clean and clear, like in your dreams, only I live it. Sure are a bunch of flowers here, daisies, foxglove, and other kinds that were too shy to tell me their names.

I climbed back on the bike, clicked it into gear, and started winding the clock back toward home again, only about six or seven miles away. Suddenly, two cute yearlings, last year’s fawns, appeared standing by the side of the road. One plunged into the brush and melted out of sight, but the other one raced my bike for a hundred feet, then it faded into the underbrush. Both were white tails, not all that common anymore. (There are plenty of black tails, a slightly different species.)

As I passed the grassy landing strip, near home, I saw a large gray coyote looking for field mice. He looked at me for a moment, then trotted away and jumped into the brush; and this was less than a quarter of a mile from the ocean beach.

When I pulled the bike into the yard, the coach turned back to a pumpkin, so to speak; and the same old man climbed off the bike. The young man was still there too, but he was trapped inside the old man’s body.


I was recently contacted by a nice gentleman named Stanley Buck, now 78-years-old and living in Oregon.  Stan had read my Sepia Saturday blog post about McNeil School/Guntner and Panther Creek and had sent me stories to share about growing up in the Smith River, Oregon area.  Stan was friends with some of my Traylor relatives also.  Meeting new folks is a wonderful part of blogging, and I am so happy to have made a new friend in Stan.  He is such a great writer, and we are lucky to have him as a special guest on Oregon Gifts.  Stan wrote the story above 11 years ago, and still continues to ride through the rainforest of the Oregon Coast.

~ Kathy M.

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